


Overindulgence

by Vectorsigma3441



Series: Shattered Glass [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: M/M, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:04:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vectorsigma3441/pseuds/Vectorsigma3441
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one should annoy Optimus when he's feeling angry, though that doesn't stop a certain few.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overindulgence

**Author's Note:**

> Sticky, oral, threesome, masochism, humiliation.

In the public, in places where others could see him, he was unfailing. Strong. Cold. He was everything that the Autobot Empire had been built on, the foundation, the pillars of strength, and that's the way he acted in front of everyone else. Favoritism was minimal, and if it was there it was carefully hidden.

Cold air pervaded the throne room.

Optics stayed wary.

Whenever Optimus Prime made a move, a motion, someone was instantly at his side, a servant, a bodyguard, asking if he needed anything. Because, as leader of an entire Empire, why should he have to do anything?

But, despite being cold, sometimes he was angry, as he was now. It was brimming and boiling within him, thrashing around like a beast trying to escape from a cage. His long and slender digits pawed incessantly at the metal arms of his throne, that piece that looked like hellish macabre art from the underworld. Optimus fondly referred to it as the 'seat of evil' and he had no qualms about sitting in it.

"Sir?" Ironhide's smooth and deep voice came from his right, and Optimus flicked his head over, his red optics falling upon the giant Autobot emblem across the way, staring down at him with its firm expression. He did not answer his bodyguard.

"Shall I call for Ratchet, My Lord?"

Ricochet made a constrained excited squeal in the back of his vocalizer from the leader's left. Both of the bodyguards were usually silent, kept behind the throne on seats of their own, watching, protecting. The three mechs knew exactly what calling Ratchet would mean.

Optimus waved two of his fingers in answer. Ironhide could see them, and as much as Ricochet strained to see around Ironhide without leaving his seat, he could not, and he whined in disappointment. Approval then, and Ironhide's optics glowed with excitement.

"Yes, My Lord, right away," he murmured, then turned to his counterpart, "Ricochet, you're dismissed."

The red and white mech made another whine and he glared at Ironhide from behind his orange visor, but he did as he was told and slipped down from his chair and descended the steps quickly, his steps erratic and jumpy, happy. He rounded the dais and got down on his knees, both of them, and bowed until his helm touched the floor, complete reverence for the one before him. Then after the appropriate amount of time he rose, but kept his gaze down and turned sharply on his heel and left.

For several minutes Optimus didn't move, and his face was tipped up in anger, lips quivering underneath his mask. They said, those who abhorred the mech, that Optimus was made from dead things, that he was a dead mech with no ember. Cruel, evil, a thing from the darkest depths of Cybertron, and most believed he was quite ugly under that shining silver mask. To the those who knew him, Ironhide and a few select others, thought he looked rather normal, if not handsome.

Optimus stood up and the guards at the main doors jumped to attention. He strode down the steps of the dais with long and confident steps, his narrow and smooth waist rolling and bending with each move, unintentionally seductive. Perfect for a mech to wrap his legs around. . .

He turned and continued to the back of the room, the recessed red lighting shining off of his plating in a show of shadowy colors. Ironhide followed.

The leader descended through a set of stairs in the floor, where more cool air wafted up from below. These were Optimus's rooms, set underground for safety reasons. Through a series of doors he moved, each of them thicker than the last, leaving them for Ironhide to shut.

Once he was through all of those thick and protective blast doors, Optimus was in the beginnings of his rooms. As leader, they were large and expansive, extravagant, and even Ironhide hadn't seen the extent of them.

Rich red floor tiling, made from the hottest miasma, tapestries and several valuable items right out of the ancient museums lined the room. In the slum of the city, of the disparity of the rest of Cybertron, it was truly a haven. A place of the gods.

As he walked in the room, several servants tailed him, their frames weary and low, though they followed their orders perfectly. Optimus grew tired of the ones who flinched at being near him and often took them aside and pulled their optics out with his fingers if he was particularly displeased with them. Those ones often got sent to Ratchet. Anyone who Optimus didn't like near him on such a personal level was mercilessly killed, more than likely raped, and perhaps even experimented on.

The leader's footsteps were slow, and to the trained optic, most certainly of the veteran Ironhide's, he was able to notice the slight limp in Optimus's step, and he knew the mech must have been pained greatly. Of course he knew that Optimus was doing his best to cover it up, to always have his impenetrable front on when around others.

With a flick of his wrist and a soft noise, Ironhide shooed the servants away, where they bowed low, then scurried off to some other place, eager to be out of the presence of two such high ranking mechs. Though the elder warrior held no position in the high command, he was Optimus' friend, confidant, and even, though it was kept the utmost secret, lover.

Yes, he was hesitant to call it that, but in the past few years, it had grown into just that. It was something more than what Optimus had with anyone else, where, between them, interfacing was not used as a device of humility, so unlike Rodimus and many others Prime decided to cast his vindication across.

Though, despite the relationship that had hesitantly started between them, including the extremely fragile state of its continuation, Ironhide could tell that there was something different about the younger mech. Whatever it was, whatever information Optimus had managed to get his ever crafty digits on had changed him drastically. In reality, he was more madness now, more unrealistic. Ironhide was doing his best to reign the mech back in the small ways that he could.

Finally the two of them arrived in front of large chamber doors, ones wrought out of pure silver, and two servants pulled them open, their forms different than the ones before. These were femmes, perfectly shaped, forms stunning. They were positioned there on purpose by Jazz. Enticing, everything from the thin beads adorning their wrists and waists to the dramatic and beautiful painting on their faces.

As Ironhide and Optimus passed through, the elder warrior mech gave a sharp flick with his index and middle finger to the purple femme on the right, the motion symbolizing a greeting.

"Chromia," he said simply.

Her red optics flared and a smooth smile appeared on her pale lips, her fingers drawing lightly upon the silvery colored doors, sharp claws tracing over the engraving. "Master," she murmured quietly, voice beautiful and cool. More than a few times he had brought that particular femme to his berth. His red gaze flicked to his left, where he saw Elita's lips were pursed, no doubt wishing she was also receiving the same attention. Ironhide could see the barest glimmering traces of her opened panel. A femme never needed any physical stimulation to produce lubricant.

Though they didn't have spikes, they were able to form new life, unlike mechs. Broad chestplates for allowing two embers to exist when the time came, one on each side of the upper chassis, the emberling and her own. It was precisely the reason both of them were at that particular door, placed there for easy access for the Prime, and also, Jazz wanted to coerce Prime into producing offspring.

But, Optimus hardly trusted his closest, much less a femme to be bonded to his ember. It would never happen.

The doors shut with a soft snap behind the two, and Ironhide turned his helm to gaze wistfully back, more than wishing for some femme company.

This room was big as well, giant and rounded pillars supporting the broad and tall ceiling, though, predominantly, the floors were covered in deep pools set far in. Some were bubbling and churning with odd colored liquids, others were crystal clear. Optimus picked a still and smooth looking pool with a clear pink tint, where he easily descended the smoothly hewn steps, moving to settle his frame on a small ledge near one of the edges.

Ironhide strode out of Prime's line of sight, moving to sit on a chair behind a white colored pillar, his old joints and struts giving a few well earned cracks and hisses as he settled down. Dark colored red legs easily crossed and rested on the floor while he waited for the arrival of Ratchet

For a while Optimus Prime simply sat and stared at nothing, his frame soaking in the healing bath. Then, with languid movement, he drew his long digits up to his face, tracing the outside of his mask with a sharp tipped finger. The pinkish colored liquid dripped off of his fingers, sliding in thick rivulets down the strong cords of his neck, disappearing back into the bath.

Ironhide could barely see him take of his mask, but even so, he couldn't help the desire that flared through him. Then, he heard a soft click, one that seemed to emanate throughout the chamber and he had to resist twisting around to see those handsome features.

"You'll take Chromia as your mate?" Optimus spoke slowly, his deep and powerful timbre more unrestricted now that his mask was out of place. He held that silver piece in his hands, tracing around the edges with a gentle digit, then tossed it behind him, sending it skittering over the flooring.

"Perhaps If I someday wish for an heir. Otherwise, no," Ironhide spoke softly, his red optics alit on the place where the mask had fallen. His frame itched to go and retrieve it for his leader, but he did not move. Optimus liked his privacy, even if that meant only not being able to see Ironhide.

"I see. . ." Optimus spoke.

"You don't approve?" Ironhide said back, his frame rigidly straight while he stared at the wall ahead of him, his red optics roving over the small and crisp white metal tiling, not one cracked or out of place.

"It's for the best," Optimus replied, then settled his frame farther down into the water, making some rise up above the brim and rush to the drain holes in the floor.

"Perhaps," Ironhide half-heartedly agreed.

Several minutes passed and the dark red mech didn't move, only clasped his hands and kept his audios listening for any sounds out of the normal. He was a bodyguard, a guard of the singularly most important mech on all of Cybertron, and it didn't matter to him whether he was in his lord's personal chambers or not. Potential enemies were everywhere, though Ironhide didn't count himself one, and as he turned his helm at the sound of the doors opening, he didn't count Ratchet as one either.

As always, Ironhide's dark red optics scanned Ratchet's form appreciatively as the medic walked with confident steps, everything about the mech showing control and precision. The CMO walked around the healing bath Optimus was in, then drew down on one knee, lithely bowing, and he didn't rise until the leader had flicked a finger at him in greeting, as it was also a command.

"My Lord?" he questioned softly, his glittering red optics passing over Optimus's form, his lips parted as he gauged the mech from where he was. A psychopath he may have been, but he was excellent at his job.

Optimus grunted and leaned his head back, lifting his leg up, or rather motioning to it, his broad black knee plating barely surfacing from within the depths of the pool. He had incurred an injury on that knee a while back during the beginning of the war, and it had always given him problems. When the new protoform repaired itself, the scar tissue built up and became uncomfortable, even painful to him.

The medic made a noise of understanding, and he carefully tread forward, taking the motions as an invite to join. Carefully he moved down the steps, every pede step forward bringing him further and further into the water mixture until he was submerged up to his broad chassis, his optics lowered in the presence of his lord. Ratchet moved closer to Optimus and carefully drew a hand down to that massive leg, holding it under one arm, letting it rest on the angle of his hip and thigh.

"Ooh, Ratchet," Optimus murmured, one hand cupping the surface of the water, and splashed a diminutive amount on Ratchet's shoulder. "Please be gentle," he said in a small voice, his lips curling up into a smile. Ironhide snickered from where he was.

"Yes, of course my Lord," the white and red mech spoke, his lips displaying his amusement and own benign feelings. His fingers flicked out, and a small blade appeared, a scalpel, and he bent Optimus's leg at an angle, then brought the knife down to start working, but he was interrupted by a large hand pressing to the back of his helm, urging him to bend down.

"Kiss it first!" Optimus laughed.

With crimson optics flaring hotly, Ratchet turned his helm towards his leader, their optics connecting, and as he leaned down to press his lips to Optimus's knee joint, he never broke optic contact. "Yes my Lord, how foolish of me," he answered, then lifted his helm back up, his lips dripping with pink liquid. That large hand drew away, and Optimus rested it back upon the surface water, playing with it. "Much better," he murmured back, and tilted his head back to lean against the cusp of the pool.

"Thank you my Lord," Ratchet answered again, then drew that blade down to start cutting upon the scabbed metal, his lithe and slender digits expertly handling the knife with a skill that few could rival, if any. There was a reason Optimus had chosen him to be his personal surgeon.

He worked for several minutes, and only once did the mech before him shift in discomfort, but Optimus made no other moves, nor did his voice his displeasure about any of it.

Then, like an explosion, Optimus reached forward and yanked Ratchet away from his leg by the medic's collar ridge, and abruptly stood up, another giant hand reaching forward, where he then backhanded the mech across his face, and Ratchet could only grunt in pain, his faceplates turned down so he could cough out the energon that had settled in his intakes from such a cruel blow.

Ironhide was already on his pedes at the pool's edge, his rifle aimed at the medic, a perfect shot.

"Whore!" Optimus hissed, knowing quite well what game the mech was playing, and he backhanded the medic across his facial plates once more, sending the mech reeling, splashing into the pool, but one large hand had already gripped for him, and for several moments he held Ratchet's helm under the pool, then let him up and slammed him chassis first against the edge, his hands gripping harshly to his back.

"You're in luck today," he hissed in Ratchet's audios, then thrust his hips forward against Ratchet's aft, grinding their frames together.

The CMO could only moan in pleasure.

Ironhide lowered his rifle and hemmed the edge as he watched, drawing closer in small steps. Oh, it was turning all too good for him, and he wished he could smirk wider than he already was.

"Ironhide!" Optimus called, his large hands gripping tightly onto an unresisting Ratchet. "Come here so he may better service you. . ."

That rifle he had been holding disappeared into his subspace quicker than a flash, and he tried not to show the jaunt in his step as he approached.

With old grace, he dipped down to his knees, then moved his legs out, sitting down on his aft. Ironhide scooted forward until his pedes hooked the lip of the bath, and his worn black hands reached out, pausing to stroke lovely at Ratchet's head, and then his talons gripped harshly at the medic's dermal plating, pleased at the satisfying yelp of pain it brought as he insistently pushed those unmarred silver lips to his plate. "Suck, lick, and grovel like the whore you are. . ." he murmured softly while Optimus laughed.

"Of course you like to be in the middle, don't you?" the leader asked.

"Y-yes, my lord," Ratchet replied, fingers kneading helplessly at Ironhide's hips.

The smile on Optimus's face was unmistakable in its madness, and he thrust his large hips forward, forcing Ratchet farther up onto the floor, his aft and plate clearly displayed for Optimus's use. His stomach plating scraped against the floor when Ironhide shifted his front again, one hand to the back of his helm to keep the medic's lips on his plate, where he started to kiss and suckle, his wet glossa roving desperate patterns over the old warrior's plate.

"Uhn, please, Ironhide, let me take you in my mouth. . ." he murmured, whimpering as Optimus pressed closer and forced his legs to part farther in an awkward way. All either of the two on the opposite ends of Ratchet could do was laugh at the mech's words.

"So desperate?" Optimus asked as he leaned forward to kiss Ironhide over the expanse of Ratchet in the middle, hardly paying mind to the begging mech at all.

"Oh, yessss, my lord. . . want to feel your spike in me, stretching me. . . Ooh, make it hurt!" he pleaded, his plating clattering in need as he worked more vigorously over Ironhide's plate, and allowed his own to open before he was commanded, even if getting slapped around would have made it a bit more fun.

The two larger mechs broke apart and Prime pressed a finger inside of Ratchet's valve, swirling his digit around in a wide arc while he let his own panel open, then savagely began scratching a single finger against Ratchet's pliable valve walls, delighting in the screams of pleasure and pain it wrought.

"Please!" was all Ratchet could say, and the other two laughed.

Ironhide reached a hand out and slapped Ratchet's face, gentler than Optimus, but the medic got the notion and turned away, allowing that warm piece of metal to slide open, where Ironhide extended his generously sized spike, allowing himself a sigh of stark relief, his chassis heaving.

He pressed his hips forward, rubbing his spike along one side of Ratchet's cheek, leaving a slight glistening trail, though his sharp digits held the mech's chin and eager mouth.

"Make sure. . . you don't waste a drop. . ." he whispered, and then shuddered as Ratchet's mouth fastened around the tip of his spike, the hollows of his cheeks more prominent as he started to suck. Ratchet's glossa swirled around the tiny opening at the very tip of Ironhide's spike, then he moved down and lightly drew his denta around the ridges of older mech's spike, incurring a moan from the dark red mech, while he slowly drew more in.

All the while Optimus watched in amusement, then shifted forward, his hands framing Ratchet's hips as he allowed his own spike to extend in the healing bath, the special particulates making him feel more rigid than he thought he had felt in a long time. He leaned forward to kiss Ironhide again, then flexed the muscle cables in his stomach, brutally burying himself within the tightness of the medic's valve.

"Ah, Ratchet, tight tonight," he moaned, breaking away from Ironhide to thrust his hips forward sharply again, only stopping when his thighs met the wall of the pool, the water sloshing over the edges with his strength.

Ratchet moaned against the spike in his mouth, now half buried in his throat, and tried to feel the pain as acutely as he could.

A motion started between Ironhide and Optimus. The old warrior would jerk his hips forward, and while not moving Ratchet much, Optimus would thrust back, as if it were a simple tug of war match between them, though, with the accomplished CMO between them. Every muffled cry Ratchet made was pure pleasure to the bodyguard, and Prime was more than pleased to watch the way his subordinate's spike glistened with oral fluids as it was sucked, watching the bobbing motions of that white helm in front of him.

Ratchet's valve clenched sporadically with the pain, loving it all too much, and as Ironhide came after several minutes of his vigorous work, he purposely moved his mouth off of the quivering spike and let the transmetal fluid splash against his facial plates, reveling in the feel of the hot fluid clinging onto his sensitive dermal metal, optics off in rapture.

Climax was soon coming for him with the way Optimus's spike stretched him so beautifully beyond the point of pain, he drew too much pleasure from that, and he could feel a stream of lubricant flowing from his valve to leak down his thighs and gather into the bath, though it was stirred up with the warlord's thrusts.

"Ooh, Ratchet, you're such an easy little slut," Prime murmured and tossed his head back, optics flicking off at the sensation of Ratchet pulling snug around him. His thrusts were becoming jerky and his intakes labored, and when he grew close, he allowed his muscle cables to relax, to keep himself from overload a while longer, and as Ironhide moved away, Ratchet's front scraped across the flooring while his claws dug furrows into the tiles.

"Oh!" Ratchet moaned, optics dimming over as the sensitivity of his valve was exploited, which brought him pain, and he purposely clenched around Optimus's spike, gazing back as his hips were quite plainly lifted from the powerful driving force.

"Ahhh. . ." Optimus murmured as he overloaded, optics turning off as he spilled his copious load within Ratchet's valve, hips jerking up sharply, more water flowing over the lip of the pool. His face was beautiful, lips pursed together as he let himself have expression in his overload, even the barest of his glossa poking out from between his lips. His neck cables rose and fell as he moaned several different timbres, finally feeling some satiation and satisfaction for the first time that night.

Several moment they were still, each of them, while steam rose from Optimus's vents, his chassis flecked with patterns of condensation and vapor. He eased himself out Ratchet's valve, then groaned and lounged off to the side, resting heavily against the submerged seat he had been in earlier.

"Clean yourself up," he muttered, then reached a large hand up to slap Ratchet's aft, a slight smirk on his face.


End file.
